


Sunday Best

by eqyptiangold



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Fluff, Jealousy, Light Angst, M/M, Secret Relationship, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25083535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eqyptiangold/pseuds/eqyptiangold
Summary: “Heads!” someone yells. Stiles catches the forfeited football as it flies off-course towards their table. His colourfully painted nails contrast with the worn leather, and he smiles softly.Derek Hale—pretty, pretty Derek Hale—gambols over with an expression warring between the smirk of a fox and the grin of a golden retriever. “Sorry, Stilinski,” he says. “Good catch.” His pale green eyes light up with innuendo, reminding Stiles of the delightful twinge of discomfort in his backside that had prompted him to spread, supine, across the table. Heedlessly, Derek leans over Stiles. Strong hands grip the edges of the picnic table and veiny forearms cage Stiles in, those entrancing eyes boring into his. Let’s keep falling in love forever, Stiles thinks.
Relationships: Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 1
Kudos: 63





	Sunday Best

The social dynamics in Beacon Hills Preparatory School have always been... odd, to say the least. It’s to be expected, really, for the only private school within miles to be a bit idiosyncratic. BHPS has popular kids, just like the other schools in the area, but there’s also a confusing series of sub-categories, some of which end up ranking above the popular kids. At the same time, some students are part of the typically unpopular categories but still manage to be seen as more well-liked than some of the popular kids. It’s the type of confusing labyrinthine system that could only be created and understood by trust fund toting high school students with small-town syndrome. 

As Stiles sits in the centre of the school lawn, lounging on a picnic table with his legs strewn over someone’s lap, he finds his gaze drifting across the picturesque expanse of the courtyard. Two tables away are the popular athletes, a collection of rowdy guys sporting boisterous laughs and easy confidence. A few of them are tossing a football around, and Stiles notes how very  _ high school _ it all feels. Something straight out of a teen movie, he thinks, absently twirling a puff bar between his fingers. Vaping isn’t his thing, but somehow he always ends up with one in his hands. He only ever takes a hit once a day, maybe, and only because he knows just how attractive he looks with creamy white smoke drifting from his mouth. 

“Stiles,” Lydia says, sounding like she might have already said his name once or twice. He flops back on the table, tilting his head lazily to look behind him at the glamorous redhead. She’s never quite fit in with this group, always too ritzy and cosmopolitan for Stiles’ lunch table. His group are the pretty ones; where Lydia is untouchable beauty and shades of silver and gold, Stiles’ friends are cute pastel bandaids and hues of peach and sky blue. Even in the way they’re sitting, the differences are hugely apparent. Stiles is sprawled across the table, pretty in his lack of effort and easy happiness; meanwhile, Lydia sits on the bench with her legs crossed neatly, looking like she’s ready for a photoshoot at any moment. 

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, absently handing the puff bar away to someone who actually wants to use it, rather than fiddle the way he is. “You look pretty, by the way. I like your belt.” Lydia is possibly the only person in the courtyard who looks comfortable and flawless in the school uniform after the onset of a gruelling heatwave. It’s possible that she hasn’t heard of sweat before. 

“Thanks, love,” Lydia says sweetly. She receives compliments the way one might receive an object that’s been borrowed from them; appreciative, but like she expected and knew it was coming. “And I was trying to tell you that your girl is coming over here,” she informs, nodding attractively towards the said girl. Stiles half-rolls to get a glance. His head ends up in someone’s lap but they don’t even discontinue their conversation, instead dropping a hand into Stiles’ hair to pet the mildly sweaty strands absentmindedly. Even in the fatiguing heat, his friends have always been a comfortably tactile group. 

“Hi, baby,” Heather greets brightly as she joins them, leaning against the table to look at Stiles. 

“Hey, honey,” Stiles says easily, propping himself up to give her a quick peck. The kiss tastes like her cherry lip gloss and his peach chapstick. Almost like a physical presence, he feels a sharp gaze on his already-rosy cheeks.  _ Derek _ , he thinks fondly.  _ How are you, my love?  _

“Heads!” someone yells, their voice carrying the easy cadence that so many of the athletic boys share. Stiles catches the forfeited football as it flies off-course towards their table. His colourfully painted [nails](https://pin.it/mrx1xS3) contrast with the worn leather, and he smiles softly. 

Derek Hale--pretty, pretty Derek Hale--gambols over with an expression warring between the smirk of a fox and the grin of a golden retriever. “Sorry, Stilinski,” he says, maneuvering around the teenagers lounging on the grass with ease. “Good catch.” His pale green eyes light up with innuendo, reminding Stiles of the delightful twinge of discomfort in his backside that had prompted him to spread, supine, across the table. Heedlessly, Derek sidles past Heather and leans over both Stiles and the girl on whose lap his feet rest. Strong hands grip the edges of the picnic table and veiny forearms cage Stiles in, those entrancing malachite eyes boring into his.  _ Let’s keep falling in love forever, _ Stiles thinks. 

Aloud, he says, “Good luck at the game tomorrow. You’re still in the seating rounds, right?” Derek nods, eyes rolling playfully. Stiles is dating the school’s star QB; he knows exactly what round the team is in. “You guys better make it to playoffs.” 

Derek tilts his head, eyebrows rising and lower lip pushing out slightly. “You really think we wouldn’t?” he asks.  _ God, this sexual tension is enough to make a boy sweat,  _ Stiles’ mind whispers, a thin droplet of perspiration tracing its way down his jaw. He pointedly loosens the first three buttons of his uniform white shirt. 

“Hopefully the heat gets better by tomorrow,” Stiles says, blinking slowly and watching his secret boyfriend’s eyes trace the line of the sweat along his skin. Derek leans forward as if in a trance, and for a moment Stiles wonders if he’s about to lick it off. Instead, the quarterback lifts one hand to brush it away. 

“Will you come watch if it doesn’t?” 

_ Anything for you,  _ Stiles thinks. “I suppose. Only if you really want me to.” He tilts his head just enough to emphasize the pretty curve of his neck and the smooth lines of his jaw. 

“We have to go to the game!” Heather chimes in, her voice like sunshine illuminating Derek and Stiles. They react the way bugs used to when a young Stiles lifted rocks to reveal their hiding place, squirming and twisting in surprise. “Scott is playing, remember? You can’t miss your best friend’s game.” She speaks like someone who’s long used to playing memory for their significant other--even though Stiles’ memory is as sharp as a quickly lethal blade. Derek sighs; it’s soft, unfamiliar, and Stiles almost doesn’t hear it. He glances up in quiet confusion. 

“Right,” he agrees with his girlfriend, nearly stumbling over his words. “Can’t miss out on Scotty’s catches.” The friendship between wide receiver and human labrador Scott McCall and fluffy kitten Stiles Stilinski is one that confuses most of the school, but Stiles figures that a friendship based upon eating sand together in the preschool sandbox can’t be outgrown. 

“Right!” Heather declares. 

“Right,” Derek concludes. 

The tension is no longer charged with heady eye contact and subtle flirtation. Instead, it makes Stiles acutely aware of the oppressive heat clinging to his every molecule. “Left,” he mutters. Heather titters at the weak joke and Derek raises his eyebrows. “See you later, Der,” Stiles says.  _ After school. I hope you didn’t forget the candy apple lube I left in your bed this morning.  _

Stiles’ boyfriend leaves with a barely-there brush of his fingers against the outside of Stiles’ bare lower thigh. 

Heather hops into his lap, soft legs brushing his as she turns sideways until her left shoulder is lined up with his sternum. The silver cross that dangles around Stiles’ neck touches her bare arm, and Heather smiles softly. “It’s weird that you wear this,” she informs matter-of-factly. “You don’t believe in God.” 

“I believe in Sundays,” Stiles replies, the same mildly nonsensical response he always gives. He tangles his fingers in the dainty chain and strangles the cross in his palm until it digs into his skin, then presses a jocose kiss to the metal before finally letting it drop back to rest among his collarbones. 

The sweet blond boy seated on the bench to Stiles’ right offers a bag of candies to the rest of the table, and Stiles accepts with a delighted grin. He thanks his friend with a crooked grin before carefully unwrapping the shiny yellow foil. The candy melts on his tongue like syrup, flavor inundating his mouth with treacly sweetness. 

Heather giggles and sticks her tongue out with her own pink mint perched upon it. “Share?” she teases, before pulling the candy back into the privacy of her own mouth. 

Stiles laughs softly, but he’s thinking about the dark hickey he left on Derek’s hip yesterday. He wonders if the football team noticed it in the changerooms at practice this morning. Wonders who Derek would blame it on, whether it would be the sharp corner of a desk or the hot mouth of a one-night stand. 

Someone passes another vape to Stiles, though this time around it’s a Stlth. He looks for the characteristic markings that most of his friends scratch into their vapes to avoid getting them mixed up. The simple sun design marring the smooth plastic signifies who it belongs to, but Stiles opens it and looks at the familiar pod anyways to be sure. It’s one with lower amounts of nicotine, the kind that would take countless hits to get buzzed off of. Across the lawn, Stiles finds Derek’s eyes. Deliberately, he lifts the Stlth to his lips and slowly sucks the white mist into his mouth. He doesn’t bother inhaling it into his lungs, merely holding it long enough for the eye contact between him and Derek to begin dripping with heat, before Stiles blows a few O’s and then lets the remaining smoke pour freely from his lips. 

The bell rings, and Heather waves the remaining wisps of vapor away before any teachers see it. Although the school is small enough that the teachers don’t bother supervising lunch, and generally tend to look away when it comes to vaping during lunch hour, they would still have to enact punishment if anyone was unmistakably caught. Stiles hands the Stlth back to its owner, a giggly girl who wore a cherry-print crop top under her uniform shirt just for the sake of taking it off during lunch. 

Stiles takes Heather’s hand in his, slings his other arm around the nearest person from their group, and they walk into the school building together. 

-

It’s not that Stiles dislikes chemistry. The class is fun, sometimes, like when they’re given homework and he gets a chance to sneak chemicals home to fuck around and see what he can do from his rudimentary, largely Wikipedia based, personal knowledge. However, chemistry is also the last class that separates him from getting out of school on Wednesdays. He has chem last period on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, but it’s only on Wednesdays that Derek has morning practice and, thus, is free after school. 

Stiles has long since mastered the art of hiding his phone beneath the edge of his thigh and hiding his fond smiles behind a subtly placed palm. Keeping the teacher in his peripheral vision, he types rapidly with one hand while the phone is shielded by his leg.  _ Meet in the same spot, right? _ he sends, gaze absently drifting up to the series of heart emojis and sweet messages Derek sent a few minutes prior. 

_ Yeah babes,  _ Derek confirms, though with far more typos. In theory, Derek has mastered the art of typing without looking at his phone, but in reality, it’s more like Stiles has mastered the art of reading sentences that are borderline keyboard smashes. For the remainder of the class, they text back and forth with increasingly sappy messages. By the time class begins drawing to an end, Stiles is burying delighted giggles in the curve of his elbow. 

The bell rings with the dignified chime of the private school. Stiles is out the door, backpack bouncing recklessly, before the rest of the class is even out of their chairs. “Bye,” he calls distractedly over his shoulder, tripping over the ratty laces of his sneakers and catching himself on the wall. 

His lab partner mutters a quiet, confused, “Bye?” that Stiles is only barely aware of. He traces the familiar path to his locker, chucking textbooks like a man possessed until his bag is a dishevelled mass of homework and schoolbooks. Polaroids and pictures of his friends line the inside of the locker, and Stiles feels a twinge of nervousness under the immortalized grin of Heather. Still, the anticipation of seeing Derek overrides it almost immediately. 

Stiles slams the locker with a clang and stumble-jogs around the school towards one of the doors hidden away in the corner of an empty hallway. He takes a rapid, habitual glance around to make sure other students are too preoccupied with leaving to notice him. Once he’s positive that he’s in the clear, Stiles quietly pushes through the door and out into a hidden corner by the student parking lot. Large, leafy trees bathe in him in shade, and the structure of the school creates a small nook out of sight from other students and staff. Derek is already waiting there, leaning attractively against the smooth brick with a small bouquet of flowers curled in his palm. 

“Hey, gorgeous,” Derek says, wearing an easy grin dripping with fondness. 

Stiles bounces on the balls of his feet with a smile. “Hi,” he replies fondly, scampering forward for a hug. He buries his face in Derek’s chest and embraces him as tightly as he can manage. Absently, Stiles notices the soft press of flower petals on his neck as his boyfriend returns the bear hug. “I missed you.” 

“Wanted to kiss you so bad at lunch,” Derek whispers, voice sounding shaky and saturated with fondness. Preceded by a gentle caress across Stiles’ back and ass, Derek lifts Stiles’ thigh until the lankier man wraps his leg around his boyfriend’s back. “Your thighs, fuck,” Der mutters, rubbing the skin exposed by Stiles’ uniform navy khaki shorts. They’re artfully cuffed in an attempt to look cute, vaguely resembling something like boyfriend shorts. 

“I thought about wearing the skirt instead of these,” Stiles informs, pulling away just enough to rub his palms along the firm lines of Derek’s chest. Purely because he can, Stiles undoes the tie and loosens a few more crisp buttons until he can trace the QB’s collarbone with his gaze. 

“Fuck,” Derek hisses, pupils dilating rapidly. Ostensibly, he’s too focused on the thought of Stiles in a skirt to comment on the subtle undressing. “God, I don’t think I could make it through the day if you did, doll.” He watches his hand rub up and down Stiles’ thigh as if in a trance. 

“D’you want me to put it on just for you?” Stiles asks playfully, even as he feels his already-overheating skin grow warm from the mental picture of him clad in a silky plaid skirt while straddling his boyfriend’s lap. 

It isn’t until right then, when the comment is enough to have Derek pressing in for a bruising, passionate kiss, that Stiles registers the sweat accumulating on both of their faces. At first, he’s too lost in the kiss to notice, but pulling apart makes him aware of where their skin has slid against each other’s. A glance around the parking lot confirms that they’ve been standing there, fraternizing amorously in the burning heat, while all the other students have been hurrying home to their sumptuous, well air conditioned homes. He already knows that at least half of the school population must have pulled some illegal driving stunts to have cleared out the crowded parking lot so quickly. Stiles is fairly sure that the tire marks on the groomed road verge and sidewalk separating the main road weren’t there this morning. 

“Let’s go home,” he says sweetly, eyes clinging to Derek’s features as if he can’t get enough. They grab one another’s hands, giggling and swinging around each other as they head for Stiles’ Jeep. Lucky for them, morning football practice meant Derek had an excuse to catch a ride to school with one of his teammates. These clandestine rides home tended to be more discreet in the light blue Jeep than Derek’s Camaro. 

Even so, Derek still slouches low in the passenger seat and subtly places his bulging black backpack between himself and the window. Living in a small town meant an abundance of presumptuous nosiness and gossip. “Why are you with her?” Derek asks suddenly. 

Stiles almost jerks his arm in surprise, nearly ruining his turn. He allows himself a minute to finish turning the wheel; near car accident averted, he spares a glance at Derek while the wheel slides back into place through his hands. “What?” he splutters, eyes flying wildly between the road, his mirrors, and his boyfriend. 

“Sorry,” Derek says instantly, his palm finding Stiles’ thigh and squeezing gently. “I hate seeing you with her.” 

“I’m yours,” Stiles promises, even though he knows that’s not the issue that Derek has with Heather. Derek and Stiles have already experienced enough angst in their relationship due to insecurities and misunderstandings from either side. They’ve long since established that they love each other, unquestionably. 

“I know,” Derek says immediately, his hand wrapping further around Stiles’ thigh. “Just…” he looks out the window, and Stiles darts his gaze between the road and tracking the display of emotions across his boyfriend’s features. “Why can’t we just date normally?” 

Stiles blinks. He finally hits the turn into his neighbourhood, where the streets are vacant and familiar enough that he can look at Derek more than the road. “What do you mean?” 

“I want to date you publically,” Derek elaborates. His pretty,  _ pretty _ eyes are locked onto his hands as he digs the pads of his fingertips into his scarred palms and knuckles. Stiles feels his lungs jerk and twist in his chest, and a hysterical part of his mind only wants to focus on the flex of Derek’s biceps rather than the reality of what he’s saying. 

“Like, you want to come out?” Stiles clarifies, his leg twitching nervously. No one has ever been quick to assume that he’s straight--hell, he’s known as one of the school’s pretty boys. Straight is not the first word people think when they look at him. However, at the same time the bisexual rumors didn’t much matter in the face of his pretty girlfriend. Conversely, Derek, in all his football star glory, has never been questioned on his heterosexuality, even when he’s been assumed single for all of high school. Stiles doesn’t know how his boyfriend would react if he lost that easy popularity and social dynamic. 

Derek looks nervous, his hands almost shaking in his lap. “I… kind of,” he mumbles, visibly shrinking in on himself. “Only if you’re comfortable, though.” He begins cracking his knuckles with rough, angry tugs on his fingers. 

“I don’t-” Stiles stammers. He turns into his driveway with a level of recklessness that would earn him an unimpressed eyebrow-raise from his dad if he was home. “I always thought we wouldn’t come out until college,” he confesses. Stiles shuts off the Jeep and angles himself to face his boyfriend.

“Sorry,” Derek says immediately, finally looking up. He gently takes Stiles’ hand into his and toys with his fingers fondly. “We can wait. It was, uh, just a thought. I don’t know.” 

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Stiles promises quickly. He finally gives in to the urge to touch his stupidly sexy boyfriend and crawls over the center console into Derek’s lap. Lovingly, Stiles takes Der’s jaw in his hands and runs his fingers across the soft skin under the quarterback's eyes. “I love you. Of course I want to be able to kiss you and talk to you normally at school. Fuck, Derek, I dream of making out with you against the lockers.” Stiles feels his own nose scrunch at the subpar expression of the intense emotions that he feels for Derek. “Okay, you’re also the love of my life and I honestly don’t think anyone else will ever make me feel like you do. One conversation with you makes my entire day better. I want that to be more public, like, I want to be able to love you and hug you and sit with you at lunch.” 

Slowly, as the idea of coming out with Derek settles in his mind, Stiles finds himself getting lost in the fantasy of it. God, he wants it. He’s realizing that he wants it so fucking  _ bad _ . 

“I’m scared,” he says abruptly, interrupting his own rosy train of thought. “There’s no going back, after. I don’t want you to come out and have it ruin the rest of high school for you. Fuck, I want to be able to go to your football games in your jacket with DH and your jersey number face-painted on my cheeks. Is it worth it, though, if it means your teammates might start treating you like shit in the locker room because you like cock?” 

Pouting, Derek drops his head onto Stiles’ chest— and Stiles internally screams at how fucking adorable it is. “I don’t care,” he protests softly. “The whole fucking school could harass me and I wouldn’t care, babes. I just want you. You’re all I need from high school.” 

“And a diploma,” Stiles quips, because he’s an asshole that responds sarcastically in the face of emotion. He slides one hand under Derek’s button-up and wraps his other arm around his boyfriend’s head in something approximating a hug. Derek lets out a blissfully satisfied sigh and melts into the touch. 

“I don’t like talking about serious things,” he mumbles. “Stressful, ‘nd m’tired. C’n we nap and snuggle inste’d?” His words become increasingly shortened as he seems to rapidly deflate into Stiles’ arms. 

“Yeah, sweetpea, I got you,” Stiles promises, internally delighting in how precious his boy is. Derek always tends to become something akin to an affectionate koala bear after anything he equates with an argument. First realizing that it’s caused by toxic past relationships had made Stiles consider homicidal tendencies, but he’s since accepted that the best thing he can do for Derek is give him all the cuddles, affection, and reassurances that he needs. “C’mon, love, let’s go inside, yeah? Cuddles are easier in a bed.” He scatters quick kisses across Derek’s cheeks. 

Derek grunts unhappily at the idea of moving, but Stiles still manages to wrap the muscular work of the QB’s inconceivably salacious arms around his own shoulders. Slung across Stiles’ back, arms hanging loosely in front of his chest, Derek stumbles along as Stiles leads them inside. The house is empty and quiet, Stiles’ dad gone to work. “Couch?” Derek asks softly, his steps growing shorter as he leans more heavily on Stiles’ back. 

“My dad’s gon’to be home in like,” Stiles pauses, glancing around for a clock to do some quick mental math based on his dad’s memorized schedule, “six hours.”

“Bedroom,” Derek decides. He abruptly changes the power dynamics of the hold he has on Stiles; rather than being led along, Derek uses it to guide Stiles into his arms and lift the lighter boy with ease. It’s as if Stiles weighs nothing more than the football that Derek is state-recognized for being able to carry. Giggling softly, Stiles winds his arms around his boyfriend’s neck and focuses on controlling his long limbs to avoid hitting anything. “Love you,” Derek says, the words carrying vast meaning in their unceremoniousness. 

“Love you too,” Stiles vows, easy as pie. 

Half an hour later finds them napping with their limbs interwoven, cheeks nestled against one another’s with Stiles’ hands massaging the familiar curve of Derek’s back. An hour later, and they’re lazily making out; slow, sleepy kisses that make Stiles’ chest feel like a sun-warmed kitten. By the time they pass an hour and a half, Stiles finds out that Derek did, in fact, remember to bring the candy apple lube forgotten in his bed this morning. 

Somewhere nearing the three hour mark, Stiles is lying on his stomach with his feet by the headboard and Derek wrapped around his back. They’re still too bright with afterglow, with Derek’s softening cock still nestled inside Stiles, to focus on clean-up. The dirtied blankets have been shoved to the floor, leaving Stiles to lie on his soft sheets while Derek mouths drowsily at his neck. Because it’s still barely 7:00PM, and Stiles’ ADHD can only be quelled for so many naps, he holds a video game controller in his deft fingers. Meanwhile, Derek has no such issue. He settles in somewhere between rest and waking, breathing slow and steady on Stiles’ shoulders. It’s soothing, almost utopian. 

The sheets feel soft as clouds, and Derek’s skin on his is delightfully warm and smooth. Both of them are naked, save for the silver cross around Stiles’ neck and Derek’s championship ring from the previous year’s football season. Warmed by their body heat, the metal from the accessories is comfortable when Derek’s face or mouth accidentally brushes the necklace or his ringed hand rubs Stiles’ skin. The video game on the TV in front of him is working to keep Stiles’ brain from working into a frenzy, and it’s all just very… peaceful. He feels like warm sunshine in the early spring, a fluffy blanket fresh from the dryer, cozy pyjamas after a day spent wearing crisp, tight jeans. 

“This is nice,” Derek mumbles against his neck, almost as if reading Stiles’ thoughts. Even that only makes Stiles feel more connected to this beautiful love of his life. He hums in agreement, excess words unnecessary in the face of their easy comfort around one another. 

#  -

The next morning, Stiles wakes up with Derek wrapped around his back and breathing softly against his neck. Slowly, he carefully turns until he can line his forehead and nose up against Derek’s. With a quiet, vaguely pleased hum, Derek stretches his arms forwards and uses it to tug Stiles’ chest closer. His pretty eyes flutter open, dancing with more shades of green than gray in the early morning light. “Hi,” Stiles greets, voice saturated with warmth and sweet fondness like melting honey. 

“Hi,” Derek replies, his lips curving into the secretive little quirk that’s just for Stiles. “You look pretty.” Stiles can’t help it when his cheeks tint pink and a delighted little giggle falls from his mouth. Compliments from Derek are  _ still _ enough to make him feel flustered and giggly, particularly in the mornings when he’s sleepy and warm from his boyfriend’s arms around him. 

“Can we live together after high school?” Stiles asks, nuzzling closer like a drowsy cat asking for affection. “I like waking up with you.” Derek drags him closer, and they share a quiet moment of raw fondness for one another. 

“Yeah, obviously,” Derek mumbles, sounding half-heartedly disgruntled. Slowly, he sits up and pulls Stiles with him. Making grumbly noises of protest, Stiles clings to his boyfriend’s waist and leans heavily on his chest. “C’mon, babes, we have to graduate high school before we can go live in a tiny dorm room together.” 

“But m’comfy,” Stiles groans, revelling in the warmth of his pretty,  _ pretty _ boyfriend and the fluffy blankets swathing them. Logically, he knows that he has a physics test today and a teacher that would most definitely refuse him a rewrite if he missed it. However, a more controlling part of his brain is screaming for sleep and cuddles. 

Stiles glances up to see Derek with his expression as soft as a peach, lips curved slightly and eyes flooded with shades of vibrant amber around the pupils and faded green surrounding it. The sight makes Stiles’ chest flood with warmth, only increased when his boyfriend presses a kiss to his forehead. “You just have to get through a few hours of class,” Der promises, slowly sliding out of the small bed to an answering groan from Stiles. He flops down on his back, tugging blankets closer before they lose the warmth left behind. 

“Can I be your trophy husband instead?” the teenager asks hopefully. “I’m so good at cooking, I could bake and cook all day and you could come home to a dinner table set with all this food. And kids! We could have cute kids and I could take them to, like, daddy and me yoga or something so they could socialize and I could have stay-at-home parent friends.” Stiles’ eyes find Derek out of pure instinct to see an amused grin on his boyfriend’s features. “Oh!” His arms fling out in his excitement at the newest idea to come to mind. “I could come visit you during your lunch break and you could show me off to your coworkers--don’t worry, all that daddy and me yoga will keep this twink body rocking--and I’ll bring you homemade lunch and I could bring the kids.” By the time he’s finished speaking, Derek is grinning and looking so amused and  _ fond _ that Stiles can feel his cheeks heat up. He pouts, and Der’s smile only grows. “It’s too early for you to make me blush,” Stiles huffs, burying his face in a blanket that smells like Derek. 

Derek jumps back onto the bed, landing on his stomach with his feet hanging off the edge and his hands reaching out to gently hold Stiles’ ankles. “You’re extra cute today,” he murmurs. Stiles groans softly as he feels himself blush even darker at the spotlight placed on his softer mood for the day. 

“Shut up,” he whines. A pause, and then he speaks again with his voice sweetened and hopeful. “Does that mean we can stay home and cuddle?” 

Snickering softly, Derek wraps his hands more firmly around Stiles’ ankles and drags him towards the edge of the bed. Like Stiles is a doll, Derek props him up against a stack of pillows with his long legs hanging off of the edge of the bed. “We’re getting dressed,” Der announces, dropping another sweet kiss on Stiles’ forehead. Remaining seated, Stiles watches with rapt attention as Derek strips. With each new mile of muscled, tanned skin that’s revealed, Stiles becomes more and more enamoured with the idea of sleepy, morning sex. By the time Derek is only in boxers, Stiles is practically drooling with the desire to trace those abs with his tongue. 

“No,” he protests petulantly when Derek pulls on a pair of uniform issue shorts. A button up follows all too soon, and Stiles lets out a quiet wail of displeasure. 

He glances back up to see Derek standing there with his zip-up football team hoodie in one hand and Stiles’ school shirt in the other. “The school A/C’s fixed,” he announces. “Boyd texted and apparently now that it’s on, they can’t get it to turn off.” He drops the clothes onto the bed next to Stiles, and begins to gently help him out of his sleep clothes. 

“Is the hoodie for me?” Stiles asks, voice soft in its hopefulness. Derek nods, and Stiles feels himself melting. “You’re going to be such a good dad,” he grumbles as he lets Derek guide his arms into the shirt. “Our kids are going to do anything you want.” The only allowable exception to the blazers and button ups dress code is school team clothing, and sometimes Stiles finds himself cherishing the soft fleece of Derek’s hoodies more than his boyfriend himself. 

“As if you won’t definitely be their favourite,” Derek huffs. 

“Maybe when they’re kids,” Stiles relents. He holds out a hand when Derek offers him one, letting the older teenager guide him like a baby lamb to collect clothing. “But I’m going to have to be the crazy bitch dad when they’re teenagers and one look from you and they’ll be spilling all their secrets and promising to never drink or even think about drugs or sex.” 

“We’re both teenagers and doing way more than just thinking about drinking and sex,” Derek reminds with a small smile. He smacks Stiles’ ass as the lanky man steps into his trousers. Grinning, Stiles makes short kissy sounds until he receives the kiss he wants. 

“Yeah, but I found the perfect boy who would never break my heart so I’m allowed to have lots of hot, filthy sex,” he says, accepting Derek’s offered hand to lead them into the bathroom to brush their teeth. Conversation slows as they both brush, but there’s still plenty of giggling and teasing as they bump each other’s hips and make faces in the mirror. They finish in a few minutes, Stiles making an adequate number of jokes about spitting the white foam. 

“If we skip first period, I can drive and no one will see us together,” Derek offers. It’s subtle, but Stiles has known him too long to be blind to the way Derek’s eyebrows twitch unhappily. The memory of yesterday’s conversation hits him abruptly, and he yanks his boyfriend into a tight hug. 

“You have a class first period,” Stiles protests into his boyfriend’s chest. Although he has a spare, thanks to enough extra credits earned through summer classes and work experience from his summer job at the local pool, Derek has bio first thing. “If you... um, if you want, like from what we were talking about yesterday, and only if you want, we can drive in together on time. So you can go to bio, and people will see us, I mean. If you want that. We can be seen as closer friends at school, at least, right?” 

Derek chuckles softly at Stiles’ rambling. “Of course I want,” he murmurs softly. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.” 

Stiles finds himself blushing without even being entirely sure why. “I want to come out,” he promises, feeling repetitive from yesterday’s conversation. “You know all my reasons why I’m still scared, right?” Derek nods. “So we can just. Friends, at school, and in really intense, sexy love at home?” Stiles scrunches his nose at the wording, feeling his sentences run away from him in the face of his nerves surrounding the topic. 

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, rubbing his back soothingly. “Do you want to go right now?” Stiles bites his lip and nods, pulling the QB in for another hug before they leave. “Okay. I’ll sneak out the window and meet you in the Jeep?” he offers. It’s their usual routine whenever Derek stays the night so that Sheriff Stilinski doesn’t catch onto anything else. 

“See you in a minute,” Stiles says fondly. “I’ll miss you.” 

“Miss you too, babes,” Derek says, scattering kisses down Stiles’ nose. He offers a parting squeeze to Stiles’ ass before crawling out the window with the ease of an athlete. 

In the seventy seconds it takes for Derek to make his way to the ground and around to the car, Stiles stops into the kitchen to wish his dad a good day and grabs four muffins for him and Derek— ”Hungry this morning, huh?” the sheriff comments. Stiles chuckles a nervous agreement, forever uncomfortable lying to his dad, and hurries out the door. 

“Love you!” he calls as he leaves. The sight of Derek waiting in the driver’s seat soothes his restlessly beating heart. A small smile taking over his features, Stiles does a cute little jog over to the Jeep that earns him an affectionate smile from Der. He slides into the passenger seat, habitually grabbing Derek’s hand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Hi, sweetpea,” he greets, dropping their linked hands into his lap while Derek starts the car with the other hand. 

They pull out of the driveway, making the easy, nonsensical conversation littered with too many inside jokes and shorthand for anyone else to understand. Stiles is in the middle of a sentence when he gasps abruptly. “Did anyone feed Swedish?” Their shared fish is a bright red monstrosity of ugly crooked fins and bulging eyes, who Stiles also adores with his entire heart, and he knows Derek feels the same. Against all odds, the fish--named for the candy, and nicknamed Swedie for her sweet habits such as following them whenever they walk around her tank--has survived for three years under their care. 

“I fed her last night while you were hanging out with your dad,” Derek reassures. Him being around is second nature to Stiles, enough so that Stiles could comfortably go hang out with his dad in front of the TV while Derek lounged in his room like a second home. “She was swimming loops through that ferris wheel decoration between every bit of food she ate,” he coos, voice fond with the pride that only a pet owner would understand. 

“Oh my god,” Stiles gasps in delight. “Der, you know how they say that your significant other is the love of your life until you have a child? I think that’s happening.” He uses Derek’s hand to gesticulate as he talks, which has become second nature for both of them. 

“Yeah, I’ll be honest, if there was a disaster I would save Swedie over you without even thinking about it,” Derek confesses, even as he grins and his eyes light up with teasing mirth. Stiles feels himself smiling with borderline giddiness. 

“Good! If you saved my life over Swedie’s I might actually kill you,” he replies, Derek’s hand in his as he points at his boyfriend threateningly. “We went through so much work to get her, too. How many tries did it take to win that carnival game?” Together, at the annual fair, they had played a combined total of twelve rounds at one carnival game in order to win Swedish. Stiles and Derek quickly fall into fond conversation about their beloved fish, grinning and laughing and full of life. 

Before long, they’re pulling into the school parking lot. Without Derek’s school renowned Camaro, finding parking takes a few minutes longer than his usual. Stiles finds himself calling out parking spots only for Derek to lose out by a mile where Stiles would usually swerve in with tire-squealing recklessness. He’s used to receiving angry honks from people who aren’t close enough with their car to master tight turns and tiny parking spaces like Stiles and his Jeep can. “Drive like you’re  _ trying _ to crash, but don’t actually,” Stiles suggests, giggling softly. Derek snorts and guides Stiles’ hand to his thigh so that he can put both hands on the wheel. Grinning, Stiles squeezes his upper thigh once and then lowers his hand to hold the bare leg exposed by Der’s shorts. 

When Derek manages to screech into an admittedly large parking space, but with a speed that Stiles has to be impressed by, they both let out immediate, instinct-driven cheers. “I’m so proud of you,” Stiles whoops, slapping palms with Derek in a very bro-like handshake. 

“Thank you babes,” Derek replies, automatically reaching in for a kiss. Stiles moves to reciprocate, but darts out of the way at the last second. He glances around, sinking low as if to hide. “Sorry,” Der says quickly, looking anxious— but not about being caught, more like he’s scared that Stiles will be mad. 

It makes Stiles instantly guilty; he doesn’t want to ruin Derek’s social life by coming out, but he also hates making Derek wear an expression like  _ that _ by keeping it hidden. “Don’t apologize, beautiful,” Stiles says, holding his boyfriend’s hand in his lap where it’s too low to be seen from outside the car. “I love you. I’m not scared for me to come out, I’m just scared for you. I’m already the pretty boy who wears colourful nails and cute little necklaces to school and pastel, girly outfits on the weekend; when people find out I’m bi, it’s seriously not going to change much for me. If we come out and you regret it, I’m... I don’t want to see you unhappy, sweetpea, and I’m scared of you resenting me for it.” 

Derek's face looks like someone promised him a cupcake but fed him a lemon, and then punched him in the gut just for kicks. “I could never resent you,” he says, voice soft and almost miserable. “I hate... I hate how you always act like you don’t matter when you talk about us coming out. Your feelings are fucking important, Stiles. I’m not scared of any backlash. If the team can’t deal with a gay kid in the locker room then I don’t want to hang around them anyways. You’re the most important thing in my life. I don’t want to hide it.” 

“Football is one of the other most important things,” Stiles retorts, glancing around through the windows as he feels himself getting more heated. “You can stop hanging around with the team if they’re homophobic, but you can’t stop seeing them once a day for football.” He rubs the championship ring around Derek’s finger. “At school, we’re just friends for now, okay?” 

Derek looks ready to speak, but he’s interrupted by a short, raucous knock on the Jeep window. Stiles’ hand flies back with levels of stealth and speed that heist leaders couldn’t match. A guy from the football team stands outside the car, wearing a puppyish grin similar to Scott’s. “Der!” he hollers, far too loud, as if he thinks the thin car window is a steel wall. His gaze finds Stiles belatedly, but his face lights up again all the same. “Yo, Stilinski!” he whoops. “What are y’all doing?” 

Stiles opens his door, and Derek follows suit. While the QB slaps hands with his teammate, Stiles walks around the Jeep and props himself up on the hood near them. “Dude, did the Camaro break down or what?” the football player asks, smacking a friendly hand on Derek’s shoulder. 

“Nah, his family’s been pushing on him to carpool. Save the earth, right?” Stiles says pleasantly. It’s a believable lie; a few the Hale’s were hugely active supporters of environmentalism movements, and they lived out on a property surrounded by woods. 

“Oh yeah, man, Talia and the sheriff are tight, right?” 

Stiles says “Yeah” at the same time as Derek says “And me and Stiles are friends, dude.” Another wave of guilt hits Stiles even as worry for Derek’s reputation floods his chest. He glances around, catching sight of a few people from his circle flocking past. 

“I’ll see you later,” Stiles says, offering casual grins to both football players. As he heads for his friends, even when all he wants to do is continue talking with Derek, he calls out a quick greeting to them. Lydia is among the crowd, like a blood red rose surrounded by daisies, and she greets him with a smile. Meanwhile, a few of the others congregate around him for hugs and chatter. He returns the hugs, pressing quick kisses to his closer friends’ cheeks. Their presence serves to help soothe him, taking off one scrap of the heavy tension weighing him down after the way he left things with Derek. 

As if sensing that Stiles is in distress, Scott bounds up to them just as Stiles’ group enters through the front doors. “Scotty,” Stiles breathes in scarcely hidden relief. “Hey, man,” he says, leaning on his best friend for a second. 

“Hey, dude,” Scott replies, subtly leaning in to discuss with an ounce more privacy. “We have a while before class starts. Do you want to go somewhere?” Stiles glances at the clock— Scott’s version of “a while” actually equates to two minutes at best. 

“You can’t be late to class,” Stiles argues, crossing his arms and feigning a scolding mother. Already, Scott is barely passing some of his classes and at risk of having to upgrade some after high school. “I’ll talk to you all later, I’m going to walk Scott to class,” Stiles says, addressing the other people surrounding them. He shares a few more hugs before they part. 

As soon as there’s enough of a privacy bubble around them, Scott leans closer to provide even more subtlety and speaks. “What’s going on?” 

Even with the cloak of other conversations surrounding them, Stiles uses codenames he and Scott came up with ages ago. “Hardy and I... argued.” Hardy, because of a joke Stiles had made relating Derek’s rock hard abs with Hale, otherwise known as “hard rain” in Stiles’ words. (“He would make it rain buckets if he ever got on a pole.”) Last, Stiles had come up with the name when he and Derek weren’t totally committed to each other yet and Stiles still had eyes for other people— Tom Hardy, specifically. 

In hindsight, the nickname doesn’t quite fit into the serious tone of their current discussion. Still, Stiles is too used to the moniker to pay it a second thought. He explains the discussion had that morning as quickly and efficiently as possible, and Scott provides the right amount of sympathetic faces and variously toned hums. Somehow, by the time he’s finished speaking, Stiles already feels like a weight’s been lifted from his shoulders. Scott stops them outside his classroom, and drags Stiles into a hug. When they pull apart, he holds Stiles by the shoulder and forces eye contact. “Hardy  _ is _ being kind of naive about this, but you also have to let him make more of his own decisions and have faith in him to know what he wants.” 

“Naive, good word,” Stiles compliments, partially because Scott’s vocabulary is a work in progress and he is proud, but also to deflect. 

“Stiles,” Scott says strictly. 

“Okay,” Stiles whines softly. “I’ll try to relax and stop trying to control the whole thing.” The bell chimes, and Scott drags him in for another hug. 

“You guys are soulmates. It’ll work out,” he promises quickly, before darting into class. Stiles feels his shoulders relax, and when he turns to go to the library, there’s a half-smile on his features. If Derek is his soulmate, then Scott is his platonic soulmate. 

Through the rest of the period, Stiles finds his favourite couch and opens up his bio notes to study. By the time second period and his test roll around, Stiles feels simultaneously more prepared and even twitchier from nerves. He checks his phone as he walks to class, and he’s greeted by a stream of encouraging texts and DM’s.

Derek’s is the only one he replies to before handing his phone over to the teacher in exchange for a scantron sheet. “I’ll hand out question booklets when everyone is seated,” the teacher announces aggressively. Stiles finds his seat and mentally flips through concepts while tugging at the cross around his neck. 

The wait for his question booklet feels like a lifetime, but then the test flies by in what feels like ten minutes. Stiles can barely get a gauge on how he thinks he did, but every question gets answered and he doesn’t feel lost on any of them. Walking out of the classroom feels like the large, biology sized weight on his shoulders has shrunk and doubled at the same time. He opens his messages with Derek before he can entirely think it through, a glance at the clock confirming that lunch has started. 

He types quickly, asking to meet Derek in the bathroom even though it’s entirely out of the norm for them. They rarely interact at school and, although they text constantly, they both have each other saved with contact info that doesn’t reveal their names just in case anyone does happen to see it. Still, Derek agrees instantly. Trying to control his pace so that he doesn’t look hurried enough to get stopped by anyone out of concern, Stiles makes his way towards the small hidden bathroom where they’ve agreed to meet. Even with his attempts to slow his pace, Stiles finds himself jogging the last few feet into the washroom. He flicks the lock behind him, only remembering to look around to ensure that it’s empty save for Derek after the lock is already engaged. 

“Hey, gorgeous,” Derek greets, and Stiles feels his entire body relax. Somehow, the QB manages to look fucking ravishing in the same uniform as everyone else. Stiles traces his arms with his eyes, watching the way Der’s shirt tightens around his arms as he moves them. It takes a moment to process that Derek is unbuttoning his pants, and Stiles’ dick jumps like a Pavlovian response. 

Still, he giggles softly and reaches out to grab his boyfriend’s forearms before he can go any further. “Can I jus’ have a hug?” 

Derek snorts softly and grins, stepping into Stiles’ space to hug him tightly. Instantly, without even intending to, Stiles melts into his boyfriend’s grip. If not for Derek’s arms holding him up, the lanky boy would hit the floor. “I’m sorry we argued,” Stiles murmurs softly, voice pitching up with apology and anxiety. Derek mumbles something, too quiet and muffled in Stiles’ neck to be understood, but Stiles can get the gist well enough. “I love you,” he replies. 

“I love you too,” Derek says and, even muffled, the words are familiar enough for Stiles to make out. They remain clung around each other, Stiles tightening his grip every few minutes when he finds himself falling lax. After a few minutes of merely exulting in each other’s presence, Derek speaks up. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you since this morning,” he confesses softly. “Don’t know if I could’ve played the game tonight without seeing you first.” 

“I’ll be there at the game tonight,” Stiles promises. “Are you taking the team bus there right after school?” He feels Derek nod against his neck, pause, and then grunt a verbal affirmation. After a few minutes, they pull apart just enough to make conversation about everything they’ve missed in the two periods spent not talking or texting each other after their argument. They wait until lunch is nearly over before checking the time, and Stiles pouts and sighs softly. “I should probably make an appearance at my table or they’ll be asking where I was.” 

Derek lets out a sigh that’s not directed at Stiles, but rather in agreement with him. “Yeah, same,” he grumbles, yanking Stiles into a last hug. “Gonna miss you,” he murmurs softly. 

“Come sit with me at my table,” Stiles offers tentatively, his voice like a butterfly’s wing. “We could start switching it up sometimes. You could sit with me, and then in a few days I’ll sit with you?” Derek smiles, looking like Stiles has just handed him the world. 

“Yeah,” he agrees immediately. “I’d like that.” They squeeze each other in one last hug before separating with similar pouts. Derek leaves the bathroom first, promising to take the short way, and Stiles waits another three minutes before he leaves as well, taking a longer, twistier route that has him running into a few people he knows. 

By the time he reaches the tables outside, already stripping out of his hoodie and brushing his hair back from his forehead, Stiles has already run into nearly fifteen people. Thankfully, his friend circles are large enough that no one questions why he was gone for most of the lunch period. “There you are!” Scott hollers, grinning and waving. He’s seated in the midst of Stiles’ usual group, Allison’s head in his lap. Even though Allison is more than athletic and agile enough to hangout with the sportier groups, closer to Scott’s usual crew, she’s far too much of a Disney princess to belong at any other group of tables. 

“Hey, Scotty,” Stiles grins, planting his pretty sneaker on the bench seat between two girls weaving flower crowns out of dandelions. He uses it to step up onto the table and sit next to Scott. They’re facing opposite directions, but with shoulders pressed together and heads turned to talk. “Excited for the game tonight?” 

“You guys talking about the game?” Derek’s voice chimes in. He floats over from his and Scott’s usual tables, carefully focusing more on Scott than Stiles for appearance’s sake. 

“We’re gonna kick ass,” Scott says confidently, holding up a hand that Derek easily slaps. They bump shoulders automatically, and Scott subtly follows the movement to scooch forward on the table, allowing more space behind him. Even with nothing to go off of but context clues and his conversation with Stiles from earlier, he seems to have figured out enough to know that Derek’s presence is for Stiles, not him. “Have a seat, dude.” He snorts and gestures to Allison’s head in his lap, and then Stiles sitting opposite her. “You and Stiles wanna match me and Al?” he says with a teasing grin. 

“I’m not goin’ to lie, dude, it looks comfy,” Stiles says, pointedly looking at Allison’s position. She glances up absently, focused on her conversation with someone else, and offers him a sweet smile. Stiles returns it, because how could he not, before he turns back to Derek. “You gonna offer up your lap for a poor man in need of a pillow?” he asks, voice light and teasing. It all feels like a show, every word carefully calculated to come across as though they aren’t very close. 

“I suppose I have to,” Derek quips back. “Can’t turn down someone so clearly in need.” Even their tones of voice are different, less fond and soft, more boisterous instead. He hops up onto the table with his back against Scott’s, squeezing his feet in behind the people on the bench in front of him. Grinning like he would at anyone else, charged full of popular football player charm, Derek pats his lap and smirks. Stiles sends out a silent, extra thanks to his friend group for always being so tactile, thus allowing him to lie down without it seeming strange. “Am I supposed to play with your hair too?” Derek asks, gesturing at Scott’s hands on Allison’s. 

“Obviously,” Allison chimes in, her attention finding Derek. Because Scott can’t bear to keep secrets from her, she’s one of the few people who knows about Stiles and Derek. “Look at Stiles’ hair! How can you go a second without touching it?” she quips. Stiles grabs her hand, squeezing in silent thanks for her help providing him and Derek with reasons to touch without coming across as a couple in public. 

“Well I wouldn’t want to break any rules of this table when it’s my first day here,” Derek replies, and his hands find Stiles’ hair. He cards through the strands, and it’s so familiar and soothing that Stiles barely reigns in a delighted sigh. It all only adds fuel to his desire to come out; he wants to be able to do this without the performance, wants the freedom to turn and kiss Derek’s stomach through his shirt. He wants everything he can get. 

Conversation flows around him, Derek’s hands eventually begin scratching Stiles scalp--and it feels  _ orgasmic _ \--but all the while, Stiles dances through thoughts of coming out. He imagines the best case scenario, and the worst. He glances over to the athlete’s table and tries to guess how each of them would react. 

_ I’m so scared, sweetpea, _ he thinks.  _ God, I’m so fucking scared. _


End file.
